


i am misusing my body

by almadeamla



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Being Stepped On, Dom!Shane, Dom/sub, Facials, M/M, Masochism, Sub!Rick, this is the worst thing i've ever written lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:15:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25775731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almadeamla/pseuds/almadeamla
Summary: Rick's always processed grief...differently. After Dale's death, he asks Shane to help him out.
Relationships: Rick Grimes/Shane Walsh
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31





	i am misusing my body

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Book_Wyrm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Book_Wyrm/gifts).



> Book_Wyrm and I had a sleepover and we are disgusting people. So here's this.

When Rick went to Shane, the image of Dale with his entrails steaming on the grass blazing in his head on repeat, he was sure Shane was in no mood to hear him. That he would tell him off. Refuse to give Rick what he needed. That was the pattern lately. Shane’s disdain—the rebellious streak he’d displayed so prominently in his teenage years back with a vengeance—was obvious, infectious as the virus living inside them. There was only so much time before it consumed Shane completely.

Rick was shocked, and heartened, when Shane just nodded. Said for Rick to meet him in the barn in an hour. In that moment it was back to old times. They were Rick _and_ Shane again. Maybe Shane was, despite all evidence to the contrary, on the path of coming back to Rick.

Shane was already in the barn when Rick arrived. He wore his sleep clothes: a faded gray t-shirt with their old King County PD logo and briefs shorts. A dimmed lantern sat glowing atop a bale of hay.

“Well,” Shane said, motioning for Rick to pull the barn doors closed, “let’s get on with it then.”

Rick stripped. He folded his clothes with care and put them up by the lantern so they wouldn’t get messy. The last thing he needed was to go back to Lori with his only pair of jeans stained. Rick stepped out of his underwear and lay down.

They’d aired the barn out pretty well since the incident. It had the musty sweet smell of straw. But there was a lingering hint of rot, evidence of what had once resided here that hadn’t dissipated. Skin and blood caught in the wood somewhere that would just have to decompose away.

Shane loomed over Rick. He rolled his neck, loosened the joints in his shoulders. “You ready?” Shane asked.

Rick’s voice came out rough. He swallowed. “Can you—will you take your clothes off?”

The light was just enough for Rick to see Shane roll his eyes. But Shane complied, he always did comply here, with the thread of arousal growing between them. Shane dropped his clothes on the ground beside his feet without caring. Then he stepped forward.

The lantern burned Shane’s skin the color of honey. It made him seem luxurious, rich as freshly steeped sugar. It was apparent that, despite the long weeks of little food and sleep deprivation, Shane had flourished. The hard cut of his muscle was impossible to ignore, the huge swell of his arms and shoulders. There had always been a softness to Shane before, but there was no trace of it now. The end of the world had forged Shane into something Rick didn’t recognize. He was as unyielding and cold as metal.

Rick felt the cool tip of Shane’s boot press down on his balls. The hot pain was electric, it pinged through every nerve ending in his body. He arched toward it; away from it. Sweat immediately welled up on his skin.

“It’s your fault,” Shane said, merciless. His voice was as dark as the shadows his face disappeared in, the boarded over windows of the barn not letting in a single patch of moon.

Rick knew it, yes. He was responsible for their safety and he had failed. Dale--dead and buried. He had shown weakness when he needed strength. He’d allowed Shane to usurp him, to cloud his and their peoples’ morals. Chaos like this was the time to draw deep from his reserves of fortitude.

Shane pressed down a little harder. The pain evolved, now it was constant, no longer stinging, it was aching. It soured his stomach. He felt like weeping—retching. His hands scrabbled uselessly at the dirt.

Rick couldn’t pinpoint when this had started. He’d always felt his own failures intensely, even though Shane had tried again and again to comfort him. “It ain’t a big deal,” Shane would say. But when Rick refused to accept the pity offered, Shane would sigh and growl, “sounds like you just want to beat yourself up about it.”

Eventually, Rick learned exactly _who_ it was he wanted to beat him up about it.

Rick choked back a groan when Shane ground down with the toe of his boot. The agony was paralyzing. It was tantalizing. It hurt so good, like candy before a toothache.

Shane bent forward to look at him. His face was a mask, coolly observant. He always became a different person when they did this. The change slid over him like a veil. He was not the Shane Rick knew now. He was harsher, rougher—he cared nothing for the world or a thing in it. He was an artist and Rick was his canvas.

Shane stared down at them and his bitter glare was one of disgust—indifference.

Before Rick had always thought Shane a true thespian to be able to fake this. To become someone so radically different from his own caring nature. To look at Rick as though he was someone he had never seen before. Someone he didn’t need to live.

Now, Rick wasn’t so sure Shane was acting.

“I just don’t get you, man,” Shane spat, learning down to add more pressure. Rick’s balls screamed and his heart beat furiously in his chest, protesting this torment. His mouth fell open and he found he had no voice to cry out with. His cock was hard against his stomach. Traitorously it bobbed there, the only thing proud about him, and it was humiliating. That shame made the sensations in his sharper.

Rick took in the sight of Shane. His powerful thighs were flexed, his bent knee shaking minutely with exertion. He had to reign himself in to keep from doing irreparable damage. He was beautiful. He was terrifying. His face was mottled with cuts and bruises, in the low light they were like smears of purple lipstick—perverted kisses Rick had given Shane with his fists.

Shane wasn’t hard. His cock lay between his thighs, the muscle of his pelvis. He got nothing out of this. No joy. No sadness. This was a job to him. It wasn’t sexual, though there had been times it was, back before Lori. Rick wanted it to be again, if only to pretend they had that same happiness.

“T-t-touch yourself,” Rick grit out. His voice sounded nothing like him. His body wasn’t his own anymore, it belonged to the suffering being inflicted upon him. The white phosphorus burn that seared his flesh and bone. “Please.”

Shane’s dark eyes flashed. Hurt. Irritated. He spat into his hand and began to jerk himself off. Fast and efficient. His cock began to swell, flushed red, it disappeared again and again inside the curl of his hand.

“It ain’t fair, you know,” Shane was talking to Rick, but his head was tipped up toward the rafters. Rick watched the muscles in Shane’s throat work before he let his eyes be dragged elsewhere by the physicality of Shane’s taut body. “This why you can always keep yourself going. Why you never learn. It’s easy to do the “right” thing when you purge yourself of it. All that pain, the hurt knowing we lost people because of the things we done—the rest of us just have to live with it.”

Rick was too far gone to make sense of it. He was hard. He wanted to come. The torture in his balls was unrelenting, he would never be free of it, but it was easier to feel this than the swirl of responsibility that everyone seemed fit to throw on him.

The pain vanished briefly. Rick gulped cold mouthfuls of air, shaking, but Shane was on him again in an instant. Shane knelt over him, on him, one knee in the center of Rick’s chest. He continued to stroke himself, chest heaving, and his free hand reached back, reached down, and grabbed where Rick was sore and swollen and _twisted_.

Rick came, sobbing, and felt Shane come, the hot splash marking across his face. Shane was off him then, giving him the space to finally relax his strung muscles. Rick breathed, shivering from the intensity of his orgasm. It hadn’t been like that in a long time. He laughed, wordless—relieved.

Rick lay in the dirt, eyes closed and trembling. He waited for Shane’s touch, for Shane to wipe him off, wipe him down. When that didn’t come, Rick extended a hand for Shane to haul him up.

There was nothing.

Rick opened his eyes and found himself alone. The doors to the barn were open. He watched, through the darkness beyond the doors, as the soft gleam of the lantern moved swiftly away.


End file.
